Wrapped Up in Crosswords (5 page)

“Distract? Me? Actually, now that you mention it … a little distraction might be in order.”

She gave him an amused smile. “How about we have a romantic dinner for two tonight? A cozy fire in the hearth … candles … a nice bottle of wine …”

“And me cooking?”

Belle chuckled. “Only if you want to eat something other than deviled eggs or tuna casserole—”

“Like the last tuna dish? Made with the slight omission of fish, if I recall.” Rosco also laughed.

“So I forgot it, sue me. Besides, the noodles and spinach and mushrooms were tasty. Anyway, you're the culinary expert—which is one of the reasons I married you.”

“I hope there was more than one reason!”

“Clause 37-A in our marriage license: The guy knows how to make real food.” She gave him a long and loving kiss, then suddenly pulled away. “Darn. I forgot. Sara's coming over for supper tonight to work out the ‘logistics' of the toy-wrapping party. And I promised I'd try to make a Yankee pot roast for her.” Belle hunched her shoulders and smiled ruefully. “‘Try' being the operative word. I guess we'll have to postpone this tête-à-tête of ours.”

Rosco looked at his wife, his arms still circling her waist. His expression was now both serious and tender. “We have our whole lives, Belle.”

“Our whole lives,” she repeated softly. “Aren't we lucky?”

“The luckiest people in the world.”

Arm in arm, they left her office and walked through the living room to the front door. “You know, I still haven't found you a gift, Rosco. Something really special, I mean.”

“You haven't?” Rosco couldn't keep the relief from his voice.

“Don't sound so pleased. I suppose you've already stashed my present in some secret corner.”

“Well—”

“I wish you weren't so organized.” Belle made a face. “No, I don't. What I wish is that I were more like you—never misplaced my house keys or car keys, never lost the all-important note that held the crucial clue to a puzzle: all that right-brain business you're so good at.”

“But I like your left-brain qualities. Correction: I love them, and I wouldn't have you change them for the world.” Rosco gave his wife another smooch. “I'll tell you what. You be my gift. You already are. Just put a nice, big, red ribbon around your waist; I'll take it from there.”

“But I want you to have something wonderful to unwrap on Christmas morning.”

“Didn't I just say I have you?” He stepped back and perused her from head to foot. “Maybe a gold ribbon is the way to go?”

“Mr. One-track Mind … So, what did you get me?”

“Would you believe me if I said I hadn't found you anything yet? Or should I say purchased, yet?”

“No.” Belle looked at him. “You've hidden something right under my nose, haven't you?”

Rosco shook his head. “Scout's honor.”

“Is it in the living room?” She began scanning the eclectic furnishings that offset the home's picture-perfect period restoration: a standing Victorian-era lamp with a dramatically sculpted shade, a mission-style armchair, her prized thrift-shop couch upholstered in a vintage floral fabric whose color scheme was an eye-scorching burnt orange and jungle green. “Or maybe the kitchen?

“Belle, I promise—”

At this point a prodigious amount of yipping and growling interrupted them. Kit and Gabby stood in front of the couch. Despite the amount of noise the dogs were making, there didn't appear to be any physical necessity for the argument: no questionable chew-toy ownership, no rambunctious puppy shenanigans.

“Hey, you two,” Belle ordered, moving out of Rosco's embrace. “What gives?”

“Maybe it's holiday jitters,” Rosco offered.

“
Hmmmphhh.
Since when do two extremely spoiled and lazy pooches worry about anything?”

“Gabby's always concerned that Kit may be getting more puppy biscuits than she is.”

“My point exactly.” Belle raised a wry eyebrow, then studied the dogs. “Maybe they need a little more solo time. Why don't I take Kit with me this morning?” At the sound of her name, Kit sprang forward while Gabby commenced another round of short and bossy yips. “Quiet, Gab,” Belle said.

But the words fell on deaf ears, leaving Rosco to shush Gabby—which he succeeded in doing. Then he looked at his wife. “Belle,” he said slowly, as she grabbed her purse, “lock your doors before you head downtown.”

She cocked her head. “Expecting a serious crossword heist, are we?”

“No. It's just that …” Rosco paused. There was no point in frightening her, he thought. The three escaped inmates were more than likely a hundred miles away by now—if not many, many more. “The season brings out the best as well as the worst in people. I just want you to be careful, that's all.”

“My middle name.”

This time it was Rosco who gave her a meaningful glance. “Precisely what I mean. Caution has never been your strong suit.”

“I'll make that my first New Year's resolution.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I … sort of. Don't worry, Rosco, I'll lock my doors. No one but good-looking Greek guys dressed as Santas will be allowed a ride.”

Then Belle blew him a kiss, and Gabby gave one more sharp woof. Finally, Rosco walked back to Belle's office with the vigilant dog at his heels. There, his eyes seemed to survey the room and the black and white crossword-themed decor run amok: the floor painted like a giant puzzle grid, the curtains hand-blocked with letters and numbers, the lampshades emblazoned with copies of Belle's cleverest cryptics. But, in fact, his glance didn't register any of it; instead, Rosco stood still, listening as if he expecting Belle to dart back through the front door of any moment.

When he was certain he was alone, he pulled a well-folded piece of graph paper from the rear pocket of his jeans, then he walked over to the reference books and began intently perusing the titles. “One pair of love …” he muttered anxiously under his breath. “I should make this rhyme somehow … Brings … Sings … Wings.”

Gabby, however, understood each and every ominous word Rosco said. Her dark eyes had turned as hard as coal.
What rhymes with bird?
her expression said.
How about absurd? And wings? How about wrings?

B
ELLE
was fortunate to snag a parking space only three blocks from the venerable granite structure that housed
The Evening Crier.
As she parallel-parked—a task slightly hindered by Kit's bobbing head—she reflected on how un-Christmasy the city looked. True, the holiday decorations were all in place; beribboned wreaths and evergreen swags hung in every shop front; each streetlight was festooned with a multi-faceted metal snowflake or a jolly snowman, but what was missing was actual snow. Somehow the streets didn't feel festive without the white stuff crunching underfoot or icing the tops of shrubs or encircling the trunks of trees.

Maybe that's why I'm so tardy with my shopping this year,
she thought as she and Kit climbed out of the car and began walking to the
Crier
's offices.
I'm not in the spirit yet.
But then she reminded herself that today was December 21; it was high time she get herself in gear.

It was then that she drew to a sudden halt in front of a shop window. There, surrounded by twinkling mini-lights and giant gold bows, was the perfect gift for her husband. Chancy, yes, and definitely a splurge, but what was life for if not for taking risks? She'd already forgotten that she'd insisted that “caution” was her “middle name.”

Kit, who had sauntered on ahead a couple of steps and who was now eagerly examining a bounteous display of red and green, dog and cat toys in the pet shop window, instinctively stopped at the same moment Belle did. Kit tried to follow Belle's gaze when a swirl of wings caught her quick, canine eye. There were the hateful lovebirds Gabby had described.

Kit looked up at Belle, who was still staring fixedly ahead. “I'll come back this afternoon without you in tow, Kitty,” she was murmuring. “They're perfect? Don't you think? And, young lady, if you even think about eating them, you'll be in the doghouse for sure!” Kit shook herself violently, but the negative response was lost on her human companion.

Belle's Nöel

ACROSS

1.  Pilgrimage to Mecca

5.  Mr. Dillon

9.  Ms. Parks

13.  Yours to Yves

14.  Seafarer

15.  “Once ___ a time …”

16.  High school student

17.  Christmas dessert

19.  Retail items

21.  Mr. Hubbard

22.  Mom & ___

25.  ___ Hill, D.C.

28.  Chews at

29.  Mallow bloom

30.  Card or car man

31.  That guy

32.  Cancels

33.  Papa Nöel

38.  Bowling letters

41.  N.Y. Harbor island

42.  Cool

46.  Tree decorations

49.  “Maybe, I'll let you know.”

50.  Dog tethers

51.  Sconces

52.  Hit the road

53.  Belief

54.  10th day of Christmas fellas

58.  Horse house

62.  Mr. Tarkenton

63.  Eat away

64.  Tied

65.  Powdered fruit drink

66.  Big book

67.  Aida, e.g.

DOWN

1.  M.P. command

2.  Past due

3.  1996 campaigner

4.  Favorite holiday carol

5.  
Harold and
___

6.  Sights in

7.  Spinning toy

8.  Mr. Capote

9.  Red nosed reindeer

10.  Everyone has one

11.  “Like father, like ___”

12.  
Cloak and Dagger
director

14.  Indulges

18.  Cart

20.  “Aida,” for one

22.  “One if by ___”

23.  Heap

24.  Police org.

25.  Cook classic

26.  Fort Worth campus; abbr.

27.  Approves

29.  Sot sound

31.  “Deck the ___”

34.  Actress Patricia, et al.

35.  “___ the Season …”

36.  4-F

37.  Sled jinglers

38.  Skate move

39.  Buzzards Bay campus; abbr.

40.  Early photo illuminator

43.  Alas in Hamburg

44.  Tit for ___

45.  The Chaneys

47.  Scrooge coin

48.  “___ there, done that”

49.  Form a contract

51.  Duck walk

53.  Christmas tag word

54.  Not right

55.  Theme girl from
Doctor Zhivago

56.  Receive

57.  Spanish gold

59.  Volcano output

60.  M. Div., often

61.  SSW opposite

To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit
openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

Six

B
ELLE
was in the kitchen deeply engrossed in a cookbook when Rosco walked in with Sara Briephs. As neither he nor Belle felt comfortable with the grand old lady driving home alone at night, he'd opted to journey to her house on Newcastle's tony Patriot Hill to pick her up for dinner. These “chauffeured outings”—Sara's term—were the only instances in her long life in which she had absolutely no say. Given her indomitable spirit, it's doubtful she would have permitted anyone other than Belle and Rosco to regulate her activities, but Sara was notoriously soft-hearted where “the youngsters” were concerned. In fact, she believed they could do absolutely no wrong.

“Two teaspoons crumbled thyme. Check,” Belle was mumbling to herself while the white-haired dowager airily perched herself atop one of the kitchen stools—another behavioral anomaly. Sara seldom spent time in her own kitchen, let alone ensconced herself among its homey furnishings. And now seated atop this Fifties' retro perch, she resembled a life-sized, vintage doll whose feet didn't quite reach the floor.

“One cup tomato juice. Done. Three sprigs parsley. Got that. One bay leaf …” Belle droned on.

“Is that the promised Yankee pot roast you're concocting, dear? The aroma is positively ambrosial.”

“Let's hope it's as good as it smells.” Belle looked up from her book; more than a little pride showed on her face. Because she was no cook, her forays into chefdom were grand events—although, as everyone knew, the results were often less than perfect. Aside from the infamous tuna casserole, with no tuna, there'd been a certain red-hot meatloaf she'd concocted when she'd first fed her then husband-to-be.

“No hot chili pepper flakes, I hope?” he now asked with a nervous smile and a hint of sarcasm.

She glanced at the cookbook again and frowned as she scanned the list. “The recipe doesn't call for them, but …”

“Mmmm …” He nodded.

“… But, if you think I should-” Then she caught his eye, and recognized his lack of sincerity. “That meatloaf recipe listed red pepper among the ingredients, Rosco. How was I to know it meant red
bell
peppers?”